Dirty Dancing: Manhattan Nights
by Dakki
Summary: Every year, the balance of power among the New York City newsies is decided in an all-borough dance-off, a competition rife with romance, rivalry, and betrayal. This year will be no different.
1. The Achey Breaky Heart

**Author's Note: **This is, in short, one of the ideas that everyone thinks you are insane for pursuing. This is, in short, one of the ideas that, when you tell your fellow fanfiction-writers about it, they laugh really hard for about five minutes and then go, "wait…but you're not REALLY thinking of writing it?" And then you say yes and they laugh even harder. This is one of those ideas, that became one of those fics.

The idea really is a simple one: every year, there is an annual all-borough dance-off. This is the scene for our story, a narrative rich with betrayal, loyalty, new slashy pairings (really!),and more musical numbers than you can shake a wet Chita Rivera at.

DALTON: An if anyone happens to _have _a wet Chita Rivera—

If all else fails, look at it this way: we all knew something interesting had to happen when you gave a bored slash-whore with pneumonia a bottle of industrial strength Robitussin and access to a whole archive of those wonderful borough war fics. So, if you love it, tell me! Send Chita Rivera! Help sew sequins for the boys' costumes! And if you hate it, I understand. Lots of brilliant ideas were misunderstood, you know.

Like the lightbulb.

And now, _on with the fic!_

--

Dirty Dancing—Manhattan Nights

--

For many years, New York City was a world ruled by war. Among the newsies, property disputes, battles for leadership, and anything else that caused more trouble than a talk over sarsaparilla and Vienna sausage couldwork outwere solved by full-fledged warfare. Leaders became generals, and newsboys became soldiers; the alleys, side streets, and public parks of the city became battle ground. Lives were lost, heroes were made, and legacies were ushered in.

As these things happened among a class of people unnoticed by historians, it is impossible to tell the exact dates or statistics of these campaigns, but talk to any New Yorker on the street and they might reveal to you a family legend, about the Battle for the Brooklyn Bridge in 1891, or the war that took a thousand lives and lasted ten years, started when Shanghai Jim, the leader of the Harlem newsies, took a girl named Helly—rumored to be the most beautiful whore in Lower Manhattan—away from Nick Schiavelli, the most feared newsie in Little Italy.

Not even the newsies themselves could have told you when the custom of war started, or exactly how long it had been going on, while the rest of society took no notice at all, but anyone could tell you exactly when it ended: January fourteenth, 1895, when a young Manhattan newsie by the name of Kid Blink Ballatt was mortally wounded. He had been standing in an alleyway on Alexander Avenue along with six of his friends from the Duane Street lodging house, waiting to ambush Cloudy McClusky, the leader of the Bronx newsies. Before he could leap into action, however, an icicle fell from the gutter above, straight into his left eye.

It was only later that afternoon, his wounds patched up and fifty percent of his vision lost forever, that Kid Blink remarked, rather thoughtfully, that a guy could really get himself hurt in a war.

His revelation spread like wildfire through the city's leaders, all of whom saw with late coming clarity the utter truth of this statement. Within twenty four hours, a summit meeting was held, and an outright ban was put on warfare of any kind between boroughs. But a new way to solve important issues had to be decided, and so the decision was given to the boy who had made them toss out borough warfare in the first place: Kid Blink Ballatt.

Upon hearing the news, Blink thought for a moment, his lone eye squinted in concentration, and then came out with the solution that would solve all of their problems: every year, he said, there would be an all-inclusive dance competition between boroughs. Each lodging house would work together to plan their own routines and variety shows, write and choreograph their own original musical numbers, sew their own costumes, do their own hair. And every year, the best newsie dancers in New York City would be awarded their trophies, and given the choicest selling spots, the greatest power, and—the most coveted prize of all--a thirty dollar gift certificate to IHOP.

And every year from then on, that was exactly what the newsies did.

--

March first, 1900, was to be fifth annual all-borough dance-off, and the first of the new century. The excitement level all across the city was high, not least of all at the Duane Street lodging house. The boys were practicing around the clock--they were wearing through their ballet shoes at the rate of three pairs a week, their fingers bloody from helping to sew on all the sequins for Snitch and Skittery's costumes; Kloppman had even temporarily repealed the no-tuba rule for nightly band practices. A week into February, the atmosphere was one of heightened expectation, and anyone you asked would tell you just how exciting it all was—everyone, that is, except for Jack Kelly.

In the past, Jack had always been one of the most enthusiastic participants of the dance-off. Last year, his Interpretive Western Dance had won him top honors in the Modern category, a distinction that had won him a lot of the respect that he now enjoyed. Kid Blink had long been the star of the show—ever since the accident, anyway, and not the one that had befallen his left eye, either—but Jack was a tireless and enthusiastic participant, constantly willing to make punch or help to round up celebrity judges. He had never wanted to miss the chance to show off his skills, and enjoyed bonding with the rest of the boys during the endless practices and rehearsals. But this year, as he surveyed the festivities with a dead eye, he seemed almost not to notice what was going on around him. The dance-off was in less than a month, and he didn't even have a routine planned.

Everyone had some idea what was going on, but their suspicions were finally confirmed one night, a little over three weeks before the inaugural ceremonies of the dance-off, when Jack leapt up onto his bunk to give one of his famous impromptu speeches.

It was just after suppertime, and everyone was crowded into the bunkroom, working on their routines. Specs and Dutchy were huddled on the fire escape, sharing their last cigarette as they worked out some of the scoring on a song from the musical they were working on ("that one word should be held out a little—like _only death will paaaaaaaaaart…us now_, 'stead of just _only death will part us now. _'S more, uh…what's the word for it, Dutch?" "Poignant?" "Yeah, that's it. _Poignant_"). Snitch and Skittery were practicing their steps for the thousandth time, although they still hadn't decided who would lead, and Bumlets, taking a break from his own planning, was helping the littler kids synchronize their steps for the big can-can number that would come as part of the introduction. Racetrack was the only unproductive one among them, except for Jack; he was lying on his bunk, arms crosses, staring moodily out the window while he tried to make his cigarette last. Everyone knew not to bother Race during dance-off season—but then it wasn't as if they didn't have anything better to do. Everyone was busy working on _something_, but everyone stopped whatever they were doing when they heard Jack's call to attention. All eyes were suddenly on him.

"Well, uh, boys…" Jack tugged at his collar a little, suddenly realized how much attention he was getting (not normally a problem for him), "I see you're all doin' pretty well now, an' that ya hardly need me to help you along…" Racetrack, from his bunk, drunkenly hummed a few bars of the Interpretive Western Dance song, which Jack politely ignored. "An' I'd just like to say that I won't be around much the next few weeks, what with sellin' being what it is…an' I'll be gone early tomorrow mornin'. But that ain't nothin' to worry about." He sat down abruptly on his bed, visibly troubled, even Racetrack saw, about how much he should tell. Of course, Racetrack knew more than most of the others anyway, and if you knew half of what was going on in Jack's head, the other half wasn't that hard to decipher.

"So, anyway," Jack said, "uh, g'night, boys. Dance good. Win that gift certificate."

"Hey, Jack! Wanna see us practice?" Tumbler called, but by then Jack had already rolled around and begun, very loudly, to feign sleep.

--

Jack was gone the next morning, but he had thoughtfully left a note, stuck to Racetrack's forehead with a wad of chewing gum. (Gum has been around a lot longer than most people think.) It read:

DEAR NEWSIES

I HAVE GONE TO HELP SPOT LERN TO DO THE ACKY BREAKY HEART IN THYME FOR THE ANUAL BROOKLYN DANCEOFF

BACK BY 6

UUUHHHHHHH…

JACK!

Racetrack calmly crumpled the note into a ball, and tossed it out the window. He knew it would be best not to let the others find out that Jack was helping the enemy to win the dance-off; it might have seemed like a joke to _him_, sure, but what about the ones who cared—what about Kid Blink? What about Mush? What about Tumbler, for the love of God? If they found out that they had been betrayed by their leader, they would be heartbroken. _Heartbroken. _And this note didn't even tell them the half of it. They had been practicing for months—Bumlets had been perfecting his break dancing since April—and for all their efforts to be ignored like this while the person they most admired helped their greatest adversary was unforgivable.

Racetrack was just washing the gum off his forehead—_piña colada _flavored, no less, and if that wasn't the gum of choice for heartless backstabbers, then Race really didn't know what was—when Swifty sashayed up to him in search of his toothbrush. Yes, sashayed was really the only word for it. Racetrack sighed. This was going to be a hard one to break to the boys.

"Hiya, Race!" Swifty said excitedly (Swifty said everything excitedly), and Racetrack's mood might have been lightened a little had Swifty's mouth not been full of toothpaste at the time.

"Hiya, Swifty," Racetrack muttered, as soon as he managed to clear some of the foam out of his eyes. "What's goin' on?"

"Oh, nothing much," Swifty sing-songed, doing a little impromptu soft shoe. "Y'know, the usual. Sellin' papers. Brushing my teeth. Oh, and…practicing for the all-borough dance-off, of course," he added slyly. "But you already knew that."

Race just nodded wearily and went over to his bunk to check for an extra pair of clean socks. Swifty, of course, simply followed him.

"Yep, the dance-off's gettin' pretty close…only two weeks away now. And we'll have some stiff competition this year. Good thing we've cooked up a pretty good routine. We'll really blow their socks off, that's for sure." Swifty leaned over and stared expectantly at Racetrack, who of course showed no reaction.

"I SAID, _WE'LL REALLY BLOW THEIR SOCKS OFF, THAT'S FOR SURE._"

"I bet you will," Racetrack conceded, in what he hoped was as uninterested a tone as possible.

"Oh, do you want to hear about it, Race?" Swifty asked innocently.

Racetrack thought for a moment of making a break for the window, but he decided that the least he could do to soften the blow of Jack's betrayal was listen to Swifty's stupid dance-off plans, so, with a sigh, he sat down on his bunk and turned to his friend. "I'd love to."

"Oh, really, Race? Ya mean it?"

No. "Sure..."

And so Swifty and Racetrack spent nearly an hour and a half in the deserted bunkroom, long after everyone had left, talking about the coming dance-off, and the big musical that Specs and Dutchy were collaborating on for the mandatory all-lodging house ensemble piece, and Bumlets' break dancing, and how they had been really worried a while back when Skittery stubbed his toe and dislocated it and they thought he wouldn't be able to do his signature tango with Snitch, but then Sarah had been nice enough to fix it for him, since she was training to be a nurse, after all. And they talked about how well Boots did the robot, and the discount tiara they had found for Kid Blink, and how they were teaching the littler kids to play instruments, and on and on and on, until Racetrack felt that his head might explode. He only avoided it by completely tuning out, until finally, after a very long time, he noticed that Swifty was looking at him expectantly, and realized that he should say something.

"Um…is Dave performing?"

"NO!" Swifty gasped, utterly horrified. "Race, why would you _say _a thing like that? Of COURSE he isn't going to be in the dance-off. You silly boy…"

"But Dave's a newsie," Racetrack persisted, oblivious. "I mean, I know he can be…strange, but he sells with the rest of us, doesn't he? An' after all, he's Jack's best friend."

"Yes," Swifty coughed. "Friend. But, uh…well, it ain't just that, Race. Dave's a great guy and all, he really is. But he's…well…different from us, y'know?"

Racetrack just stared at him blankly. "No…"

Swifty swallowed hard, and then, with a slightly distressed expression, he leaned forward and whispered in Race's ear: "He hasn't got…_rhythm._"

Racetrack jumped back as if he had touched hot coals. He stared at Swifty, aghast. "But—no, Swifty, you can't really mean…" In the Duane Street lodging house, being called a bad dancer was the worst insult anyone could even think up; uttering it, even in reference, even in jest, could silence a crowd. A false accusation ranked as the highest cardinal sin there was, even worse than leaving your wet towel on the floor, or taking one of Racetrack's socks. And for someone to say that about a friend—even worse, about a _fellow newsie_—was never to be taken lightly.

Swifty nodded, his expression grave. "I've seen it, Race. We've all seen it. Everyone except you, and that's just because you're the only one here who ain't doin' something for the dance off." There was an uncomfortable pause at the mention of this, but Swifty quickly cleared his throat and went on. "He's got no taste. No style. The guy can't tell the difference between a merengue and a box step. He's got—"

"No. Don't say it, Swifty."

"It's true. Race, he has two left feet."

"There's hope for everyone," Racetrack said weakly.

"Look," Swifty said gently, putting a hand over Racetrack's, "what we really need is to have you back. You were our star dancer, Race. Sure, Kid Blink's great, but you—you had somethin' special."

"Swifty, I can't…"

"Nothing big, I'm not pushin' ya. You could be a can-can dancer for the piece Skitts is choreographing, maybe work up to something more. I know it's been tough for you since…since the accident, but…"

"No," Race said through gritted teeth. "Don't say another word." And with that, he stood up from the bunk so fast that he nearly lost his footing, and charged out of the bunkroom with a heavy, decidedly arrhythmic step.

--

((in an announcer voice)) Will the story behind Racetrack's fear of dancing ever be revealed? Will the other boys learn of Jack's betrayal? In Snitch and Skittery's waltz, who will lead?

DALTON: Do any of us really care?

Find out the answers to these things (maybe), and more! Next time! On "Dirty Dancing: Manhattan Nights"!

DALTON: Reviewers will be rewarded with a hot sweaty Patrick Swayze.

Or a Racetrack Higgins, if you so prefer...


	2. Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!

-

Dirty Dancing—Manhattan Nights

-

It was four in the morning, and already, the first argument of the day had broken out.

Specs and Dutchy were sitting cross-legged on one of the bunks, passing back and forth a ledger they had stolen from the lobby, arguing in hushed whispers. They were considerate enough to fight quietly, but Racetrack had been awake all night anyway. It was hard to fall asleep when you had to contend with the mental image of Jack teaching Spot to line dance.

"Look," Dutchy said, running his hands nervously through his hair, "I just…don't see what's wrong with _my _lyrics."

"First of all, they ain't your lyrics, they're _our _lyrics," Specs said, sounding almost a little hurt, "and second of all, they're stupid. All right? They don't make no sense. _Smoke on your pipe and put that in_? What the hell is that? Any idiot knows the saying goes the other way around."

"JESUS CHRIST!" Dutchy yelled in exasperation, for a moment forgetting where he was. "It's because she's _foreign_. Of course she says it wrong. It's supposed to be funny."

"Oh." There was an awkward pause as Specs tried to come up with a suitable comeback. "Well...I still like my version better!"

"Specs," Dutchy whispered, "come on. Look at this." He held the ledger up and pointed to Specs' lyrics. "_Eat Frank's Philly Cheese and get fattened_? And you think _mine _is bad?"

"It's because we need our sponsorship, Dutch!" Specs said, sounding genuinely apologetic. "If I could change it, I would. But Frank's gonna give us fifty dollars for funding if we put in some product placement, and, well…"

Dutchy just shook his head sadly. "It's a tragedy. It really is. Eighteen years old, you're already selling your soul."

"Well, it's better than selling my _body _so we can get funding for this stupid musical!" Specs said huffily.

"I dunno, Specs, Mush did that last year and it worked out real well. Got over forty dollars to pay for the costumes just by knocking on lonely housewives' doors. I don't see why you think _you're _too high and mighty to become a prostitute. Of course," he continued innocently, "Mush was an awful lot more attractive than you. So maybe—"

"Now wait just one second. Mush is more attractive than I am? Where do you get _that_? I'm damn sexy."

"Well, I—"

"I bet that I could raise _double _the money Mush got last year if I prostituted myself," Specs said defiantly.

Dutchy paused to consider this. "Well, gee, Specs, what with writing the musical and selling papers all day, you've got kind of a full schedule already. Are you sure you can keep that many balls in the air, if you'll pardon the pun?"

Specs nodded vigorously. "_Please, _Dutchy? Please, let me be a prostitute?"

"Oh…okay." Dutchy looked at Specs, who was practically bouncing up and down with glee. "But no rough stuff, okay? We can't have you under the weather."

"Oh, I promise, Dutch, I promise! And I'll start tomorrow. No—I'll start tonight! Oh, wish me luck!" And without another word, Specs rushed out of the bunkroom, happy as Jack on fish stick day.

With a contented sigh, Dutchy leaned back on his mattress and put his hands behind his head. "Reverse psychology," he murmured. "Works every time…"

By six o' clock, just as the sky was getting light, Racetrack had lost any and all hope of getting to sleep. He was too exhausted to sell that day, or contend with the rest of the boys' planning, and too on-edge to even try to get some rest in; so he took the day off and did what he always did when he had this problem. He put on his jacket, and took a walk.

He didn't know how long he was out there, or where he went; he stopped caring about what direction he went, or which neighborhood he was in. Nothing could get him far enough away from the lodging house…from the dance-off. He was running from his past, and you can never get far enough away from that.

He walked for miles, up the empty sidestreets and bustling thoroughfares, through Chinatown, Little Italy, crisscrossing through lower Manhattan—until finally, body leaden, eyes barely open, a wave of exhausting took over his body, stronger than worry and dread. He didn't know where he was. He didn't really care. He just hoisted himself onto a fire escape, curled up, and went to sleep.

-

Racetrack Higgins awoke to the smell of freshly cooked Thanksgiving turkey.

Which was odd, really, as a.) it was March and b.) Racetrack couldn't remember the last time he had had so much as a freshly cooked turkey _neck _for Thanksgiving, let alone a whole bird. For a few moments, he thought it was just a dream. But then he opened his eyes and saw that it was really there: spread out on a table in the apartment whose window he was looking into was a full Thanksgiving dinner—turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, Jell-O salad with mayonnaise, green bean casserole; why, they even had Kool-Aid! Racetrack rubbed his eyes in disbelief. This had to be a dream.

But it looked real. It smelled real…

Without a second thought, Racetrack hopped through the window, sat down at the table, and began to eat ravenously.

"Oh!" said a sweet voice from behind him, "I see you've found your lunch."

Racetrack turned around sharply, a blob of Cool Whip on his chin, to see Sarah Jacobs standing behind him, smiling radiantly.

"Look," she said, "I made an upside-down cake—with real canned pineapple!" Noticing the faint look Race suddenly had, her tone became concerned. "Why, what's the matter? Racetrack, you haven't even _touched _your Wonderbread. And I know how much you love Wonderbread."

"What's…what's going on?" Racetrack managed. He was dazed, confused, still half out of his mind with exhaustion…and the Kool-Aid wasn't helping much either.

"Well," Sarah said, going over and sitting down in the seat next to his, "I just saw you out sleeping on the fire escape, and I thought I might make you a little something." She furrowed her brow in concern. "You…you do like it, don't you?"

"Well…yeah, but…Sarah, did you do all this?"

Sarah nodded.

"It's all for me?"

"Of course," Sarah said.

"What about your family? What'll they eat?"

"Oh!" Sarah laughed lightly. "Don't worry about them! It's watered-down soup night, they're happy as…well…happy as I am to see you." She blushed.

"I see." Racetrack muttered.

"But…you shouldn't worry about this now," Sarah said, reaching out a wrist and pressing it against his forehead. "Just as I thought. You're burning up. And you look awfully pale, too. I think you should lie down."

"Well," Racetrack began, "my throat _has_ been awful sore lately and—"

But he couldn't continue after that, of course. It's difficult to do so, after all, when someone has clubbed you over the head with a drumstick, and dragged you into her bedroom.

-

No one really noticed that Racetrack was gone for about three days. They were busy with the musical, of course, and were used to Racetrack disappearing every once in a while—but one night, they all realized that something had to be amiss.

"It was fish stick day at Tibby's yesterday," Jack announced solemnly, "and we all know that Racetrack would never miss fish stick day. Boys, mark my words, he's in trouble."

"Hm," said Skittery, opening a tube of blue sequins. "Bummer."

Jack scratched his head. "No one's worried about this?"

"Well, gee," Skittery said sarcastically, "I guess. I mean…no one's stolen my socks in three whole days!"

"And no one's borrowed my money and not given it back!" added Snitch.

"And…THERE'S NO ONE HERE TO RUIN ALL OUR SLEEP BY SNORING LIKE A LOCOMOTIVE! OH, NO!" Kid Blink screamed in horror.

"A little overdone," admonished Specs. "You'll have to tone that down if you want to play Jurgis, you know."

"Jurgis?" Jack asked, puzzled.

"The lead character in our musical!" Specs piped up. "You know, _Lower Manhattan between Houston Street and Hell's Kitchen Story_? It's gonna be great."

"Ya named the main character Jurgis?" Jack asked again, seeming no less excited.

Dutchy uncrossed his legs and leaned towards Jack. "It is," he explained, "a tragic love story set in the domain of two disparate groups: a Lithuanian street gang, and the newcomers, a group of Russian Jewish immigrants who are trying to take over their turf. From this war, a pure love blossoms, between Amira, a young, beautiful girl from Moscow, and Jurgis, the former leader of the Lithuanian street gang."

"It ends tragically," Specs said.

"I see," said Jack. "And…what are you goin' right now, with…what was it?"

"_Lower Manhattan between Houston Street and Hell's Kitchen Story_," said Specs. "Well, right now we're fine tunin' the lyrics for Jurgis and Amira's duet when they first meet. It's a touching song called _About Forty-Five Minutes Ago._"

"And you think this is more important than Racetrack's well-being?" Jack asked.

Specs and Dutchy looked at each other a long moment, then at Jack. "Well…yeah," they said in unison.

"Right," Jack managed, turning around and stalking off. "Well…I'm sure someone cares!"

But, as it turned out, no one really did. Oh, of course they thought Racetrack was a swell guy and all—but they had so many _things _to do! Skittery had to finish embroidering the sequins on his and Snitch's dance costumes. Snitch had to practice his steps. Bumlets had to work on his biceps. Specs and Dutchy were busy trying to come up with words that rhymed with "Jurgis". Crutchy was decorating the sets. Mush was color-coordinated his tap shoe collection.

They all would have loved to help him look for Racetrack. Really. But they were just _so _busy.

"Well," said Jack in disgust, "I hope you're all happy with yourselves. One of your best friends is in trouble, and you don't even lift a finger—and you _know _what kind of a strain the dance-off puts on him. He could be dead at the bottom of the East River for all you know. Well, one person cares. And I," he finished, turning his collar up dramatically, "am going to go and look for him."

-

"I just dunno where he coulda gone," Jack said in despair, three hours later.

"Maybe you should go look for him," David said mildly.

Jack looked at him in horror. "Do you have _any _idea what the weather is like? It's an electrical storm! Do you know how humid that can get?"

"Well, yeah, but you just said—"

"_You wouldn't say anything, Dave, if you knew what humidity like this did to my hair_."

"But didn't you say Racetrack was in danger?"

"Would you rather my _hair _be in danger? Is that it? I can get all…all frizzy and misshapen, but IT'S OKAY, AS LONG AS RACETRACK'S BACK AT HOME? SACRIFICE ONE LIFE FOR ANOTHER, IS THAT IT?"

"Well…yes, actually. That's exactly it."

Jack swallowed hard, looking away. "I don' think I can talk to you just now, Dave…"

David sighed. They were sitting in the front room of his apartment, where Jack had shown up exactly seven minutes after he left the lodging house, a paper bag clamped desperately to his head, eyes wild, speaking to him in a deathly whisper: "David…all the shine…is going _out._" And then he had fallen forward in a dead faint, leaving David with no option other than stretching out his arms and catching before he fell to the ground.

In truth, when he heard those words escape Jack's lips, he had thought for one wildly hopeful minute that perhaps he had been talking not about his hair but about his budding relationship with Spot. As in, "all the shine is going out of our love affair, and I suddenly realize that after having left you for nothing but a trinket, I have passed up the best thing life ever gave me. Kiss me with those lips now, David. I want you back."

Of course, Jack didn't mean anything like that, and this was made abundantly clear when the first thing he asked after he woke up again was not whether David would care to make mad passionate love on fire escape, but rather if there was any pomade in the house.

"Pomade?" David asked, puzzled.

"Yeah," Jack said. "Y'know, for my hair? Look how _dull _it is."

At which point David's voice went all funny and he said that no, they didn't have any pomade, and then he went into the kitchen and spend ten incredibly noisy minutes making two cups of tea.

"Mmm," said Jack, "chamomile. How's my hair?"

"It's beautiful," muttered David. "Everything about you is beautiful."

Jack laughed. "Aw, Dave, ya don't have to say that, but…yeah. I guess you're right." He smiled at David and took a sip of his tea.

"So…you're sure Racetrack's okay?" David asked.

"Yes...no," Jack admitted. "But he'll be fine. He disappears every once in a while, you know, we think he's dead, he turns up. I'm sure he's just dead again. In a week he'll be back with us. A day."

"It's just that things have seemed awfully strange lately," David admitted.

"How so?"

"Well…Sarah's been awfully high-strung, for one thing."

"Sarah's always high-strung," Jack said.

"No she's not."

"She was high-strung when we were seeing each other."

"That's because you were sneaking off with me every twenty minutes. Of course she was nervous. You would be too if you thought your boyfriend was having an affair with your younger brother."

"But I don't even have a younger brother."

David stared at him a long moment. "You really can be incredibly stupid sometimes."

"For your information," Jack said, "_I _run a successful lodging house—"

"Kloppman runs that lodging house—"

"_I _do all the important things, I take care of the boys, I organize the dance-off every year, and I won that gift certificate to IHOP last time around too, and may I add as well I did win that gift certificate with the dance you have so affectionately dubbed the 'Interpretive Western Dance'. _You_," Jack said, "_Davey_, do not even have a dance."

"First of all," said David, through clenched teeth, "you have spent the last two weeks ignoring your boys while you do God knows what in Brooklyn—and while your boys do not know this, rest assured I do, and I could easily tell them any day. Second, you did not win the thirty-dollar gift certificate; all you got for your Western Dance was a free plate of fruit pocket pancakes. Sunny Boulahouski won more than that with his stupid can-can. And last of all, do not _ever _bring up that I don't have a dance." He lowered his head to try to hide his angry tears from Jack, but nevertheless, he saw them. "You know how much pain that's caused me. You know. And you promised to never make fun of me for it."

"Hey," Jack said. "Hey, Dave…" and now he was moving over to put his hand on David's shoulder, and speaking with genuine tenderness. "I'm sorry. You know I didn't mean it. You were right. I'm sorry. You were right. Hey…remember Racetrack's song? That always cheered you up?"

David nodded miserably.

"How did that go, Dave?"

"Who's the prettiest—who's the prettiest…" David began, and then a fresh wave of sobs overtook him.

"Who's the prettiest newsie on the block," Jack sang softly, putting his arm around David's shoulder, but before either of them could continue, they heard another voice—faint and ragged, and coming from far, far away, but still so easily recognizable that they both almost jumped out of their skins when they heard it:

"…It's me!…it's me!..."

Hardly unable to believe what he heard, Jack leaned away from David, and sang all the louder: "WHO'S THE PRETTIEST NEWSIE ON THE BLOCK?"

"IT'S ME! IT'S ME!"

"_RACE?"_ They both shouted at once.

"DAVE, I DON'T KNOW HOW TO SAY THIS, BUT I THINK I'M YOUR SISTER'S SEX SLAVE."

"Oh, no," David moaned. "Not again."

"Again?" Jack asked.

"Remember that time Swifty went missing a couple weeks and then when he came back all he would say was that he had been visiting his grandmother in Alberta?"

Jack gave him a puzzled stare.

"Never mind," David sighed. "Just go untie him."

-

**A/N: **When I started this fic, I had kind of a laundry list of dirty topics I wanted to bring up at some point. As of the end of this chapter I can cross off bondage and Wonderbread. I consider it to be a very full day.

…And I think you all knew that Specs had to become a prostitute at some point.

**Shout-outs!**

_lil__ ms kp_: DALTON: DON'T ENCOURAGE HER. _Please_…no matter _what _you do…

_Lutabelle_Look at it this way—as long as you keep updating, I stay insane, continue to have nervous breakdowns, continue to write stuff like ((points)) THIS! So in short, it's really all your fault. Thank you. 3

_Sapphykins_You know, I actually can never laugh at something I've written. It's weird. Do you get that? Of course, Dalton rolls around on the floor screaming "THE PAIN! IT HURTS!" but I think that's different.

And if Raceykins is still being a loser, I wouldn't mind some ice cream…((bats her eyelashes))…strawberry's my favorite.

_Saturday: _((gasps)) Dave made you chocolate chip cookies? DALTON never makes me chocolate chip cookies.

DALTON: SATURDAY doesn't force Dave to paint her toenails for her.

Then again, Saturday doesn't paint David's toenails either…

DALTON: ((blushes))

_Coin: _DALTON: YAY! CHITA! NOW YOU CAN TEACH ME TO BE SEXY!

((grins)) Rehearsals for Charlie Dalton's rendition of "America" will be held every Tuesday and Thursday…stop by, why don't you.

DALTON: ((sings)) Puerrrrrrto Rrrrrrrrico…you UGLY islaaaaaaaand…

_Chaos89: _It's okay. Dalton can't sing either.

DALTON: CAN SO!

Or dance.

DALTON: CAN SO!

Or play an instrument.

DALTON: CAN SO!

Spoons aren't an instrument, Charlie.

DALTON: Oh…says who?

_Unknown-Dreams: _I must say that newsies of any kind are hot…but dancing newsies DO take the cake.

DALTON: Or dancing preppies!

…

DALTON: …

_LadyRach_DALTON: ME TOO! I mean…

You know, I was actually more of a Carl-the-guy-that-killed-him-in-_Ghost _kinda girl. Can't say why. Or maybe…((pause))…you could get Race all sweaty and have the best of both worlds!

_Pancakes: _Thank you! …and now I'm hungry again. Damn.

-

All reviews will be rewarded with Charlie Dalton's rendition of "I Can Do That" from "A Chorus Line" …while wearing his lemon-yellow dance costume. Dance costume, not leotard; if you call it a leotard he won't do it. Actually he will anyway. But please, give him his dignity. He needs that, at least, if he can't have pants.


End file.
